Beverly found herself adrift in the cozy ambiance of Angele and Joanna’s living room, a realm where laughter danced freely through the air and the warmth of companionship seemed to permeate every corner. The space, illuminated by the soft, golden glow of string lights artfully arranged by Joanna, felt like a haven from the storm of her own emotions. Lavender-scented candles flickered gently on the coffee table, their light casting playful shadows on the walls and infusing the air with a calming, fragrant haze.

Angele and Joanna moved through the space with effortless grace, their laughter a melody that harmonized with the clink of dishes and the rustle of conversation. But for Beverly, every sound seemed muffled, every moment surreal, as though she were a spectator in her own life. Beneath the veneer of idyllic gathering, she wrestled with a tumult of unsaid words, her meticulously rehearsed confessions dissolving into the ether.

Angele, with an empathy as intuitive as her smile was gentle, approached Beverly and sat beside her on the couch. Her presence was a balm, her luminous green eyes searching Beverly’s face with quiet concern. “Is everything okay, Bev? You seem a little… distant tonight.” Her voice, soft and soothing, carried the weight of genuine care.

In those verdant depths, Beverly saw her fears reflected back at her but also an unwavering kindness that beckoned her to abandon the safety of silence. Her mouth opened, a string of words tumbling forward in her mind, but none made it past her lips. Instead, compelled by a force greater than fear, she leaned into the space between them, her lips finding Angele’s in a kiss that was both a question and an answer.

The world narrowed to the warmth of Angele’s lips, the faint taste of wine mingling with the softness of her skin. Beverly’s heart thundered, and for a brief, suspended moment, it felt as though everything had fallen into place. But reality, with its cruel penchant for timing, intruded abruptly. Angele withdrew, her expression a canvas of shock and confusion, her hands hovering near Beverly’s shoulders as if unsure whether to push away or pull closer.

“I… I’m so sorry,” Beverly faltered, retreating into the shell of her anxieties. Her voice cracked under the weight of regret. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Joanna, who had been setting down a tray of drinks, froze mid-step. Her dark eyes darted between the two women, her face a mixture of surprise and concern. “Beverly, wait—”

But Beverly was already retreating, propelled by a maelstrom of embarrassment and self-reproach. The sound of Angele calling after her rang in her ears, but it only spurred her legs to move faster. She stumbled out of the condo, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

By the time Beverly reached her own place, her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, her trembling hands pressed to the cool wood. Her heart was a wild drumbeat, her mind a cacophony of conflicting thoughts.

What had she done? Had she just ruined everything, destroyed the most meaningful friendship she’d ever had, all because she couldn’t control her own emotions?

Sliding down the door to the floor, Beverly buried her face in her hands. She felt like she was coming apart at the seams, her carefully constructed life unraveling before her eyes.

She kissed a woman. For the first time in her life, she had crossed that invisible line, acted on feelings she had been trying so hard to ignore. And now, in the aftermath, Beverly felt like her entire world had been turned upside down.

It was one thing to fantasize about Angele and Joanna, to imagine what it might be like to hold them, touch them, to be with them in a way that went beyond friendship. But actually doing it—feeling the warmth of Angele’s breath, the way her lips trembled against Beverly’s—was something else entirely. It was electric, exhilarating… and terrifying.

Beverly considered herself straight. She had dated men, loved a few of them. The idea of being attracted to a woman, of wanting to kiss and touch and be with another female, had never even crossed her mind. Until Angele. Until Joanna. Until now.

And now, with a single impulsive action, Beverly had shattered the illusion of her own certainty and crossed a line she could never uncross. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, like everything she had ever known about herself was suddenly called into question.

But even worse than the confusion and self-doubt was the crushing weight of rejection. The look on Angele’s face—shock, confusion, and something unreadable—was seared into Beverly’s mind, a painful reminder of her own foolishness.

How could she have been so reckless? So stupid? How could she have risked everything—thrown away the most important friendship of her life—for a fleeting impulse?

Beverly’s chest heaved with silent sobs, her tears hot and relentless. As she curled into herself, a prickling sensation began to creep across her skin, starting in the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. It was faint at first, like the brush of tiny needles, but it quickly grew into a persistent itch.

Frowning, Beverly held up her hands, squinting at them in the dim light of the living room. At first, they looked normal. But as she turned them over, her breath caught. Faint, red rings were forming on her palms, thin and perfectly circular. The skin beneath them tingled with an unnatural warmth.

A chill ran down her spine. Were they hives? Some kind of allergic reaction to the stress? Or something worse?

Her mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Ringworm, eczema, a rare autoimmune disorder… The red rings seemed to mock her, a physical manifestation of the chaos within. As her tears subsided, her focus sharpened on the patterns spreading across her skin. She couldn’t shake the sensation that this was more than a coincidence.

Her breath hitched as the faint red lines began to pulse, the rhythm matching the frantic beat of her heart.

Beverly hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She had never felt so alone, so lost in the sea of her own making. She knew she should call someone, but the thought of explaining what had happened was too much to bear. For now, all she could do was sit in the darkness, nursing her broken heart and shattered illusions, and pray that somehow, someday, she would find a way to put the pieces back together.

Even if she knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same again.

Not. The. End.